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Early in life, Alicia wrapped her fingers around a pencil, put lead to note paper and began stringing words together in an effort to form perfect sentences that sparkled like glistening glass beads on a necklace. One word, two words, three - a sentence. One sentence connected to another - a paragraph, four. The thrill of paragraph after paragraph blending (gently or with great power) into a page, a chapter, a manuscript.

Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

After staring at this picture for awhile a story finally came to mind. Sorry, it turned a bit bleak in the end. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting our Friday Fictioneers’ party each week, and thanks to my fellow attnedees for reading and leaving comments.

Photo by Marie Gail Stratford

Just like the yarn in Grandma’s weaving basket, the threads of Lilliana’s life were all tangled up.
Used to be she knew precisely where she was headed and what waited at the end.
Used to be nothing, nothing could get in her way.
Yeah, used to be.
But now she couldn’t see beyond the thin, grey line of her new life.
Sure, people tried to help, said reassuring words, promised the moon.
She listened, straight-backed and graceful.
Even smiled – sometimes.
But Lilliana knew, absolutely, that women without feet were never asked to join the ballet.

For fifty-six years I’ve pinned this photograph to the wall or taped it to the mirror.
Sometimes it’s buried in my wallet.
How I miss you.
Because it was Christmas, you wore a red velvet dress.
Because I was angry I wore black boxing shorts and a torn yellow shirt.
At the party, you laughed, smiled and flirted with me
as if I weren’t the biggest jerk around.
We both drank too much, I know that, but I drank until I couldn’t see.
Still, I heard – brakes squealing, shattering glass.
And. One. Shrill. Scream.

Wow! It’s Wednesday-Friday again and time to take Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s picture prompt and create a 100-word story. Thanks, Sandra Crook, for presenting us with a wonderful example of Trompe L’Oeil, it sure fooled me!

People had called her Ms. Penny Wise for so long, her true name was lost.
Living in the derelict house, wearing tattered dresses and taped-together shoes she was most often forgotten.
But sometimes, surely not often, a woman delivered a pie or a man fixed her car.
No one was invited inside nor thanked, for that matter.
So when Ms. Penny Wise wasn’t seen for a week or maybe two, she wasn’t missed.
When they discovered she’d actually died, no tears fell.
But when they found out she left a million dollars to her cat,
they wished they’d paid more attention.

I’ve found myself missing the Friday Fictioneer clan so am putting my textbook aside for part of the day and throwing a 102-word story into Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Wednesday ring of stories.

The temperature reached 95 by noon. And the humidity, Anita tried to ignore that stickiness.
Here, beneath the umbrella trees, the air felt cool. The biting flies weren’t as bad, and the whirring click of crickets was more soothing than noisome.
She spread her picnic. A dingo yipped, a lizard stole a cracker, ants crawled across an apple slice.
None of this bothered Anita, for the ground beneath these trees was her safe place.
Sleep tugged at her eyelids until she finally lay back on her blanket.

“Anita Fredrickson! Get your five-year-old self in here for a nap!”
Anita blinked, the outback disappeared.

I’m a little late to our Fairy Blog Mother’s party, but who can resist Rochelle’s invitation with Ted Strutz’s picture on the front? I will be in and out of FF world for a while. I’ve been teaching aerobics at the local Y which is closing at the end of January. In order to continue teaching the ladies I’ve fallen in love with, I must take an online class then a big test. I only say big because it’s been ages since I’ve been tested for anything but getting through life without hurting myself. AS always, thanks for reading my work.

O.K. Here’s story number one – or the story my husband thought too grisly. Thanks to anyone interested in reading.

Samuel had never collected hats because he’d never thought of it before. Rather disgusting in the end. All the hairs caught in the wool: red, blonde, black, gray.
And tiny flecks of skin.

Red-haired Anya, the seamstress. Blonde-maned Margo, the butcher’s wife. Old man Peterson, hair black as coal and his brother Thomas, gray-headed and scaley.

It wasn’t the fact that they were all dead now, it was how they died, shoved into a pit and shot, one-by-one. Samuel remembers how they lay bleeding in the snow. The only unstained clothing? Their woolen caps, now stacked neatly in his closet.